Floodwaters and Fault Lines
Grief, God, and the Politics of Disaster
By LONNIE KING
The flooding in and around Kerrville, Texas has been weighing heavily on me. More than 100 people have died or gone missing, and the images of the swollen Guadalupe River feel almost surreal—until I remember just how quickly tragedy can strike in that part of the Hill Country.
I was part of a church youth group that would annually go to Pot-O-Gold Ranch, a summer camp tucked alongside the river not far from the current disaster zone. The last time I went was probably around 1976.
It was a place of summer heat, laughter, organized (and disorganized) sports and creekside dares—where you’d meet new friends from other churches around the state and maybe even work up the courage to talk to a girl from the Dallas group.
It was also, looking back, very much a Baptist indoctrination camp. That’s not something I want to unpack fully in this post—but I also can’t pretend it was all joy and nostalgia. Like a lot of things from that era of my faith, it was complicated.
Still, watching the floodwaters rise again in that same region has pulled those memories back into the light—bittersweet and muddy, just like the Guadalupe itself.
In 1987, years after I’d last attended, Pot-O-Gold Ranch was impacted by a flash flood that claimed lives and devastated the property. I didn’t experience that event firsthand, but I remember the story vividly and knew the exact spot well.
And now, nearly four decades later, the grief is fresh all over again—for different victims, but the same aching landscape.
Selective Outrage and the Politics of Pain
What’s also been stirring in me—beyond the sadness—is a growing frustration with how we talk (or don’t talk) about disasters like this, depending on where they happen and who they affect.
When wildfires swept through Southern California earlier this year, I watched people on social media waste no time turning it into a political football.
Climate change deniers, red-state loyalists, and culture warriors (very likely some of the same people who used to go to church camp with me) piled on, blaming everything from environmental regulations to Hollywood values. The empathy seemed optional.
Now, as this flood devastates part of deep-red Texas, some of those same voices are saying, “This isn’t the time for politics.”
Funny how that works.
I don’t know if there’s blame to assign for this particular flood. But I do know you can’t pick and choose which natural disasters are okay to politicize. Either we’re willing to ask hard questions about preparedness, infrastructure, and environmental patterns, or we need to admit that our outrage is just another form of tribal loyalty.
God’s Sovereignty… Selectively Applied
Then there’s the silence from many Christian conservatives, especially the ones who are usually quick to assign spiritual meaning to tragedy.
In other contexts, they’ll say “everything happens for a reason” or “God is in control.” But in moments like this—when the grief hits too close, when there’s no “other” to blame—those declarations seem to go quiet.
Or worse, they create an ‘other’ to blame, expressing sentiments containing conspiracy theories about the federal government seeding clouds to manipulate the weather instead of acknowledging Jesus’ words in Matthew 5:
He causes his sun to rise on the evil and the good, and sends rain on the righteous and the unrighteous.
Matthew 5:45 (NIV)
I guess their God isn’t bigger than the liberal agenda. Or at least it’s not the same God that Jesus knew and spoke about.
But seriously, where is that same bold theology now? Where’s the commentary on divine sovereignty or the hand of God?
I don’t ask that flippantly.
I still believe in God. But I no longer believe in the kind of logic that says a god micromanages everything for a higher purpose only when it’s convenient to say so. Furthermore, it’s not the disasters that shake my faith. It’s the selective theology of people who claim to speak for God.
And actually, even those people don’t shake me. Their comically weak theology is actually a source of a lot of laughter for me. Except in times like this.
Let the Grief Be Grief
So, I’ll back off—for now. Because maybe this is a time not for spinning narratives, but simply for mourning. For holding space. For being honest.
Honest that disasters don’t care about borders or voting records. Honest that lives were lost, and families shattered, and that no social media argument will fix it.
And maybe—just maybe—these literal floods can remind us of the invisible ones people around us are quietly drowning in every day.
Emotional floods. Financial floods. Marriages on the brink. Grief that won’t let go. Anxiety that won’t back off.
Maybe the most faithful response isn’t to explain the flood, but to wade into the grief—no spotlight, no sermon, no hashtags. Just presence. Just care.
We can’t always fix it. But we can show up. Not with easy answers or spiritual sound bites—but with love. With empathy. With a willingness to sit in the mess and say, “I’m here, and you don’t have to go through this alone.”
Because when the waters rise—whether in the Hill Country or in the heart—the thing that matters most is whether we notice… and whether we care enough to stay.
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Randomly Rudimentary Faith Stuff 
Floodwaters and Fault Lines
Grief, God, and the Politics of Disaster
By LONNIE KING
The flooding in and around Kerrville, Texas has been weighing heavily on me. More than 100 people have died or gone missing, and the images of the swollen Guadalupe River feel almost surreal—until I remember just how quickly tragedy can strike in that part of the Hill Country.
I was part of a church youth group that would annually go to Pot-O-Gold Ranch, a summer camp tucked alongside the river not far from the current disaster zone. The last time I went was probably around 1976.
It was a place of summer heat, laughter, organized (and disorganized) sports and creekside dares—where you’d meet new friends from other churches around the state and maybe even work up the courage to talk to a girl from the Dallas group.
It was also, looking back, very much a Baptist indoctrination camp. That’s not something I want to unpack fully in this post—but I also can’t pretend it was all joy and nostalgia. Like a lot of things from that era of my faith, it was complicated.
Still, watching the floodwaters rise again in that same region has pulled those memories back into the light—bittersweet and muddy, just like the Guadalupe itself.
In 1987, years after I’d last attended, Pot-O-Gold Ranch was impacted by a flash flood that claimed lives and devastated the property. I didn’t experience that event firsthand, but I remember the story vividly and knew the exact spot well.
And now, nearly four decades later, the grief is fresh all over again—for different victims, but the same aching landscape.
Selective Outrage and the Politics of Pain
What’s also been stirring in me—beyond the sadness—is a growing frustration with how we talk (or don’t talk) about disasters like this, depending on where they happen and who they affect.
When wildfires swept through Southern California earlier this year, I watched people on social media waste no time turning it into a political football.
Climate change deniers, red-state loyalists, and culture warriors (very likely some of the same people who used to go to church camp with me) piled on, blaming everything from environmental regulations to Hollywood values. The empathy seemed optional.
Now, as this flood devastates part of deep-red Texas, some of those same voices are saying, “This isn’t the time for politics.”
Funny how that works.
I don’t know if there’s blame to assign for this particular flood. But I do know you can’t pick and choose which natural disasters are okay to politicize. Either we’re willing to ask hard questions about preparedness, infrastructure, and environmental patterns, or we need to admit that our outrage is just another form of tribal loyalty.
God’s Sovereignty… Selectively Applied
Then there’s the silence from many Christian conservatives, especially the ones who are usually quick to assign spiritual meaning to tragedy.
In other contexts, they’ll say “everything happens for a reason” or “God is in control.” But in moments like this—when the grief hits too close, when there’s no “other” to blame—those declarations seem to go quiet.
Or worse, they create an ‘other’ to blame, expressing sentiments containing conspiracy theories about the federal government seeding clouds to manipulate the weather instead of acknowledging Jesus’ words in Matthew 5:
I guess their God isn’t bigger than the liberal agenda. Or at least it’s not the same God that Jesus knew and spoke about.
But seriously, where is that same bold theology now? Where’s the commentary on divine sovereignty or the hand of God?
I don’t ask that flippantly.
I still believe in God. But I no longer believe in the kind of logic that says a god micromanages everything for a higher purpose only when it’s convenient to say so. Furthermore, it’s not the disasters that shake my faith. It’s the selective theology of people who claim to speak for God.
And actually, even those people don’t shake me. Their comically weak theology is actually a source of a lot of laughter for me. Except in times like this.
Let the Grief Be Grief
So, I’ll back off—for now. Because maybe this is a time not for spinning narratives, but simply for mourning. For holding space. For being honest.
Honest that disasters don’t care about borders or voting records. Honest that lives were lost, and families shattered, and that no social media argument will fix it.
And maybe—just maybe—these literal floods can remind us of the invisible ones people around us are quietly drowning in every day.
Emotional floods. Financial floods. Marriages on the brink. Grief that won’t let go. Anxiety that won’t back off.
Maybe the most faithful response isn’t to explain the flood, but to wade into the grief—no spotlight, no sermon, no hashtags. Just presence. Just care.
We can’t always fix it. But we can show up. Not with easy answers or spiritual sound bites—but with love. With empathy. With a willingness to sit in the mess and say, “I’m here, and you don’t have to go through this alone.”
Because when the waters rise—whether in the Hill Country or in the heart—the thing that matters most is whether we notice… and whether we care enough to stay.
This is SO good, I've gotta share it!
Related